from the Distant Past,

the finality of imprisonment calls for retreat when vested in circumstances...

cats now rip away the wallpaper from its elastic foundations

uncovering disguised donations that should have been mailed back to the senders…

pointillist pictures become confused polkadot images hanging over aother masterpiece,

this one a caricature of a perspiring barmaid from Puerto Vallarta

without eyebrows or glasses,

serving up easy over embryos and huevos rancheros just for the ask…

way out on the veranda the scope gets more diverse,

w/ a photograph ov an overdressed naked user

forgetting to button up his coveralls

and unzip his landlord,

thus triggering his mailbox nightclip superimposed galactic universe…

…and all the while we inmates wait for the rose-colored whore

who drove back to the border to collect her pocketbook from some one eyed fruit trader

who was last seen gathering used manholecovers

from electric irrigation sidewalks…

“hey purple woman in the sensual shirt

worn for the 6th straight day,

tonight we least expected this

recklessly foreclosed

no place to escape

escapade!”

meanwhile inside Peter’s vast eclectic library,

much of its inventory has been lost or borrowed,

obituaries have already been written

as literary America has already been usurped,

and the foliage now covers nearly all the remaining books and pamphlets…

one notices little proximity ontop complacency accepted,

whichever case is used,

clandestine donations to the World Bank now equal a small fortune,

expenditures non existent…

while businesses continues transacting arranged love affairs

another forlorn poet surrenders and leaves,

abandoning all thoughts of marital bliss...


and everywhere drunken pianos are put up for sale,

rich in discord

unexplainable sharp/flat refrains

that seem to merge on some other indefinable level,

never divulging any hint of resolution

before the next phrase ensues...


now the prison cell becomes the focus of serious consideration

as the “now” is lost in the dust

(at least it still emanates from disappearing consciousness),

while hypnogogic Music allows freely moving appendages

within each line of improvisation,

and plants and animals procreate for another growing season,

no mistake about when or where to climb

or float and vine to accommodate the pervasiveness of gravity…

at last incomplete themes are reinvented,

donated by the mononucleosis-induced art dealers,

who dictate free advertising instead of compromising their own private collections,

as paintings become currency exchanged for painter’s blood,

exposing an artist's methodical will to reel in closer to the Void,

rationalizing, “this month I could have been gunned down for exercising my free will

had I not donated my blood

had I not sold my work on the cheap…”

thus, consequences of these concessions are way too great for compromise

or resolvable by process ov elimination,

so the borrower must be responsible for his meager offering,

must notice who jumps before the gun goes off

for the brotherhood ov long distance runners eventually withers away

during this fanaticized race…

ultimately, can there be any doubt neglected supplies may some ready-made answers

that eventually decay after deciphering so many unwritten questions...

let it be decreed no sulking on verandas during birthdays will be authorized

while composing loveletters to wayward savants

hanging out in pristine concert halls


8/4/74